Destined to Repeat It
by Bonehammer
Summary: Saddled with a life debt and an impossible assignment, a man is sent back to make good on his own mistake and save the world he once reduced to ashes. His first task: to kill Harry Potter... Challenging some 'redo' fic stereotypes.
1. 1 Wake up Dead Man

"_Those who don't learn from history are destined to repeat it."_

**Rating:** M.

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated characters belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Acknowledgments:** to my beta, Gryffinpuff, who tries to make this better; any errors left are my fault and not his. And to my alpha, Paolo, who puts up with me typing well into the night.

**A/N:** With the wealth of "redo" fics out there, it was just a matter of time before something like this happened. I was spurred from Star'Kan's story, "Nightmares of Future Past", and the timeline this Harry comes from is a tribute to his own idea – except that the Second Coming went to hell in a wastebasket.

1. Wake Up Dead Man

"If there's an order in all of this disorder  
Is it just a tape recorder?  
Can we rewind it just once more?"

U2, _Wake Up Dead Man_

The room was exactly as he remembered. In the far corner, a heap of Dudley's broken toys, which were being discreetly disposed of one at a time, but still taking up a good half of the space; the trunk already prepared for tomorrow's departure, minus a few books scattered around for a last night reading; the train ticket underneath the Sellotaped glasses, the opened cage on top of the wardrobe. The window was ajar and a gentle draft was blowing the curtains – Hedwig must be out, hunting. A full moon drowned the room in a peaceful blue light and even the dust over the furniture looked like freshly fallen snow.

A chill that had nothing to do with the cool September night ran along his naked spine and he picked up the clothes from the floor: a baggy, faded tee-shirt and a pair of threadbare blue jeans that had been turned up at least four times. They dangled to perfection from his scrawny frame; the diet at Spinner's End hadn't been any richer than at the Dursleys'.

Through the dimness, he gazed with dark adapted eyes at the source of all his troubles. The Boy Who Lived was lying, looking lost in bed a bed too big for him, having a less than peaceful dream. The chair creaked softly as he sat down, and suddenly it dawned on him that the Dursleys had reserved this room for damaged goods, and the two of them fitted that description perfectly.

Harry had been thrashing around for a good ten minutes and was muttering something unintelligible in his sleep when he checked the blinking alarm clock that Dudley had flung across the bedroom once (he had forgotten to set off the alarm on a Saturday) and decided it was about time.

He turned on the wobbling table lamp. The sleeping Harry bolted up from the bed, at once reaching for the wand under his pillow. His hands came up empty, so he stared at him, blinking like a startled owl, taking in the scar, the glasses, the messy hair…

…and panic filled his wide green eyes as the realization of who the other was dawned on him.

"No," he breathed. "It can't be."

"Sadly, it is," the other Harry said, twirling that selfsame wand between his fingers; he had years of practice sneaking around in dark places, and a deft touch, himself. "Are you going to keep quiet and listen to me, or put up a fuss and wake Uncle Vernon?"

Not to his surprise, Harry wouldn't even let him start.

"I don't know who you are and I don't care what you say!" It was weird, how he could lower his voice to a barely audible whisper and still sound like he was screaming. "_This_ time I'm going to make it right. I won't screw up any…"

"I know you won't," his twin broke off. "You'll bloody well destroy every single residue of his existence long before he manages to come near to those you love. Attaboy, Harry."

That seemed to give him pause. His head cocked slightly to one side, he murmured, "Then… how…"

"Then it gets hairy. You know who's going to wear a black robe, and curse and murder given the chance. People who died in your arms are alive and safe again, and you mean them to stay so. But how can you, without revealing who you are, what you've done? Some will believe you, some won't, some will ride along for the hell of it, and soon enough it was just like the first war, only it was in _your_ name that the killings were done, you self-righteous scumbag…"

Unconsciously, Harry had switched to the past tense. It _was_ the past as far as he was concerned. He might as well have switched to first person: just because his memories had been marinating in a stone basin for seven years, they didn't feel any less his own. No matter how hard he wished.

"No, I don't mean to… I won't _let_ it be like this…" Harry muttered nonsensically as the account finally started to sink in. The other went on; they didn't have all night.

"By the time you came round, some of your best friends had died. So you stepped in front of a Dementor, leaving behind an empty shell of a body and a Pensieve full of horrors. A smart witch and a reformed Death Eater put everything back together again… and here I am."

That last part had been an utter waste of breath; his former self had become too hysterical to even listen to him.

"But – look – now I can change it. You've _told_ me – this has changed _everything_! Tell me more, I…"

"Sorry, mate. I was told not to take any chances."

By this time Harry had realized something was very wrong with him. In spite of his mounting agitation, his head kept lolling forward and his arms were hanging like dead weights at his side.

"What have you _done_…?"

Suddenly, his doppelganger couldn't look him in the eyes. "I knew you would take it badly -" he said through the knot in his throat "so I poisoned you before you woke up."

It had to be handed to him, Harry _still_ had fast reflexes. Drawing his strength from desperation, he catapulted himself out of the bed, landing awkwardly, and was halfway to the door when the other one caught hold of him, just in time to muffle his scream. The struggle was one-sided, and even if he had managed to call for help it wouldn't have done him any good, but he was a warrior through and through and wouldn't go without a fight. His future self held him down, cursed his Gryffindor attitude that never knew when to give up.

"I won't make your mistakes again," he promised even as he was pinning him to the ground. "Your friends will be safe with me. I swear. Let go. Please," even though he knew how futile that was.

By this time, Harry couldn't talk anymore, but he managed to give his murderer a last glance of bitter accusation that was worse than having been cursed aloud.

When his former self finally stopped breathing, Harry thought of all the lives that were being saved, of the books spared from burning, of the hate that wouldn't breed; it didn't help. The body in his arms looked so frail and harmless, now he had rescued him from the inhuman messiah he would become, and damned himself along the way.

His eyes were itching; he squeezed them tight. He had wished he could let him sleep through it and be done, but the decision had never been his to make. The details had been discussed a million times over: Harry had a right to know the accusation before the sentence was carried out, and he hadn't been given the antidote anyway.

He wrapped his former self in the threadbare sheets, draped the limp burden around his shoulders, and went down to the kitchen as quietly as he could. The body weighed nothing, but he wasn't much stronger and was still dizzy from having been stretched over twenty years' time in the wrong direction. Add to this that the landfill was four miles away, that he couldn't do any magic, and that Uncle Vernon was snoring just two doors away, and the unpleasantness of the situation started to unravel.

He left via the back garden. A large black dustbin bag covered the sheets and he looked like walking garbage himself in his oversized clothes. Something was good about Little Whinging: no one was bound to wander around at night and stumble onto an eleven-year old boy carrying a bundle as heavy as he was. The streets were empty, and if Arabella Figg's cats saw him slogging to the dump with his unusual luggage, they saw fit not to pass the word around.

The dump was a huge ditch, radiating a powerful smell for a mile around, and surrounded by a wire fence nine feet high. Climbing was hell; he was halfway up when his resting foot swung inside the shapeless trainers and he lost support. Every single muscle from his right hand to the small of his back pulled; the wire fence bit into his fingers; red raw shock travelled through his brain, but he held tight. For some absurd reason, he couldn't drop the body; as if he could hurt him any more than he had already. Somehow he managed to reach the top of the fence and crawl down to the other side; he stood there for a while, catching his breath. The situation called for something appropriate to be said, but he couldn't come up with anything. For a start, he didn't know whether it was right to feel wrong as he did. In a sense, he wasn't even sure he had _killed _someone; his own suicide had merely been rescheduled twenty years earlier. And there he was, Harry Potter indeed, packing a pulse and all, right? It was just… unsettling that the proof of the contrary lay at his feet in a black bag; it called for quite a bit of doublethink

A shiver shook him again in spite of the mild night: the cold came from the sight of the huge gaping pit, littered with black garbage sacks exactly like the one he had carried, filled nearly to the brim and crawling with rats. That was what was in store for him if he failed... for endless others like him. The weight of the realization made his shoulders slump.

His other self had been a bit of a prat, and he vowed that if it ever came to him, he'd take it like a true Gryffindor. But how could his stand-in guarantee he wouldn't commit mistakes of his own making, and be erased in turn?

A nightmarish vision floated before his eyes: an endless line of Harry murdering and being murdered, their bodies finally pouring out from the landfill, strewn all along the course of the Hogwarts Express, stacked capital-high in the Room of Requirement, until their collective mass would cause the cliff under the castle to collapse and crumble into the lake…

He shook his head to get rid of that last disturbing image. He had learned his lesson the hard way; he would not fail, no matter the price. His own demise seemed a small thing compared to the thought of another Harry Potter, of another whole timeline, chained to the millstone and forced to retread the same rut again.

--

_Next:_

(9+ ¾)ⁿ


	2. 2 Here We Go Again

Destined to Repeat It by Bonehammer

**Rating:** M.

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated characters belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

2. _Here We Go Again_

You had to win  
You couldn't just pass  
The smartest ass  
At the top of the class  
Your flying colours  
Your family trees  
And all your lessons in history

U2, _Please_

At seven, Uncle Vernon started banging on the door like a mad blacksmith.

"Come down, boy! Time to make breakfast!"

Two hours of sleep weren't much even in the best of conditions, and Harry's back had given him hell all through the night. He crawled out of bed and into the kitchen like a zombie, absently operating the toaster and kettle, and ate two slices of plain bread as the eggs fried.

Even as Dudley prodded him with a fork because the bacon wasn't ready fast enough, Harry couldn't help wearing a dazed smile. He would never be locked again in a cupboard or behind a bookshelf, have his head shoved down the birdbath or in a Pensieve; he wouldn't see Spinner's End for the rest of his life, and Number Four for ten months. It was as close to a blessing as he could ever hope for.

The journey to London and the arrival at King's Cross were uneventful; Uncle Vernon pushed his trolley for him, checked that no Platform Nine and Three Quarters was anywhere in sight, and left so quickly one would have thought Harry was a bomb about to go off.

Harry just stood there with his exotic luggage, ignoring the funny looks he was getting from the Muggle commuters. The previous time, he had got quite a laugh out of the Dursleys, pushing his trolley at a breakneck speed down the platform and disappearing through the barrier, but he exercised his restraint this time; he had to meet the Weasleys properly.

It was easy to spot the wizards among the crowd, now that he knew whom to look for; he recognized Seamus Finnegan and family – his Muggle father looking quite nervous indeed – and the young black lady who kept looking at the ticket, then at the platform numbers, then at the ticket again, absolutely befuddled, must have been Dean Thomas's mother.

An odd disenchantment took hold of Harry: like he was watching again a movie he remembered fondly and discovering everyone was dressed funny, and the acting was not that good, and the story sounded so much better when its ending was still unknown. He checked himself in the mirror of the photo booth to make sure that the scar was well hidden under the fringe, and that uneasy feeling became even stronger.

But then the Weasley clan walked into King's Cross, and Harry shoved those thoughts aside.

He easily followed the bundle of flaming red hair among the crowd, and emerged from behind a pillar just after the twins had passed the barrier.

"Er… excuse me, ma'am" he said, and found out, to his surprise, that it wasn't difficult to act small and intimidated in the presence of Mrs. Weasley. The stout matron turned, saw the trunk and the owl cage and promptly smiled.

"Hullo, dear. First time at Hogwarts? Ron's new, too."

Harry looked at Ron and they exchanged smiles; Ron's nervous, drawn, Harry's as wide as he dared. He followed Mrs Weasley's instructions about how to walk through the barrier and soon found himself once more treading the well-worn cobblestones of the Hogwarts Express platform.

He moseyed towards the end of the train, recognizing people he remembered greyer, hardened, dead: a Ravenclaw student that Harry had last seen lying, Demented and soulless, in St. Mungo's was having his hair ruffled by an older girl, probably his sister; senior Slytherins stood in a tight-knit group beside the tender, unaware that in six years' time half of them would be wearing the Dark Mark and the rest would be dead; Neville's toad hopped awkwardly among trolleys and shoes, following his irrepressible need for freedom; Lee Jordan was once more sporting dreadlocks and showing his pet tarantula to a group of shrieking girls. Platform Nine and Three Quarters was a giant puppet show, and Harry was a part of the cast as anyone else; the only difference was that he could make out the strings.

The twins hammered the point home even further by offering, once again, to help him with his luggage; Harry agreed heartily, because he was in no condition to lift the weighty trunk. They spotted the scar on his forehead and only Mrs. Weasley's recall saved Harry from embarrassment; they got off the train and he sat in the compartment, hearing them talk about him through the open window. Ginny's silvery voice brought back unpleasant memories and he closed his eyes, swallowing through a suddenly tightened throat.

_If that's what it takes to make you understand, then yes, Harry, I'll fight you._

It was absurd, really: he ought to have been rather angry at Ron, who had shared his madness, even encouraged him when the increasing estrangement had made his resolution wane; Ginny had just done what was right, and if Ron had followed her example, perhaps he might have come round before too late...

But Harry couldn't hold a grudge against his old friend, not when he had stepped in the way of a curse that was meant for him. Actually, it was so good to see him in one piece that it had taken an effort not to hug him, Hagrid-style, right there on the platform.

The rest of the morning went as scheduled: the Hogwarts Express set off in billows of steam and Ginny ran along it until the end of the platform, waving; Ron came to sit in his compartment; the twins introduced themselves and left, leaving the two younger boys alone and free to make their acquaintance.

Harry's spirit lifted somewhat as the well-known events clicked orderly into place, and not even the inevitable _déjà vu_, or the sense of acting a part, or the presence of the world's slimiest Animagus in Ron's shirt pocket could dampen the warm fire that came from his old friend's proximity. A few subtle prods during the conversation took care of Ron's fears of inadequacy, and when the snack trolley stopped by their compartment, the two boys were cracking jokes and laughing like they had known each other for ages.

Harry was cocooned in a halo of confidence by then, like he'd guzzled Felix Felicis; he felt there was nothing he couldn't do. Banish Voldemort like a bad dream, subdue Snape's hostility, win the Quidditch Cup, reform the Ministry… the world was brimming with opportunities waiting to be picked. So it was with a new spring in his footsteps, in spite of the unrelenting backache, that Harry excused himself to follow nature's call and spend a Knut.

The magical world fared little better than Muggles as far as facilities were concerned. It was less cramped than a regular British Railways lavatory and the soap dispenser had a Refilling Charm, but the lingering stench and associated features were all there; a loose door kept rattling madly with every jerk and jolt.

Harry was washing his hands in the sink when a movement caught his eye. He wheeled around, and saw his own doom staring back at him with mild green eyes. His knees, his aching back, everything in him gave under. Somewhere in his mind he was expecting this; he would _always_ be expecting this. But nowhere in his darkest dreams had he thought that The Boy Who Lived Yet Again would meet his fate on that very same day, and in a stinking train toilet at that.

"Did I really screw up _that_ bad?" he said, when he found his voice again; his mouth was as dry as sand.

The other nodded, with an air of commiseration.

"So – what happened? Failed? Turned Dark? Pulled a Pettigrew?"

The newcomer spoke at last. He sounded grave and thoughtful, or maybe that was how Harry wanted him to sound.

"Do you really want to know?" he said coolly, reaching for the inside of his robes.

"No – not really. Wait – are you going to _curse_ me? In _here_?"

"Untraceable wands. Developed during the war."

Harry snorted. Damn, he would have happily done with one last night. He ran a sweaty hand through his messy hair, sat on the toilet cover and realized, with horror, that a part of his mind was working out how to minimize the thumping noise. Make things easier for his stand-in. Then again, it had been already pointed out at length that he had a death wish.

"Wish you better luck than mine, mate. I – I mean it."

The other just nodded again.

There had to be something more to say. Harry knew he was supposed to feel sorry, but he just couldn't. How can you repent for a sin you didn't commit, you don't even know?

That was his last thought as the wand completed its downward flick -

--

_Next:_

Several species of small furry animals gathered together in a… train compartment?


	3. 3 Strangers on a Train

Destined to Repeat It by Bonehammer

**Rating:** M for murder.

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated characters belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Acknowledgements: **to Gryffinpuff for his invaluable input and Paolo for changing nappies while I write.

**A/N:** As Chris Claremont once said, "I never kill characters unless I know how to bring them back."

3. Strangers On A Train

"When we were young nobody knew  
Who you were or what you'd do  
Nobody had a past that catches up on you"

WHIPPING BOY, _When We Were Young_

...and nothing happened. Harry sat still, fully aware of his heart thumping like a crazed jackhammer, his labouring lungs, the acrid smell of his own fear. His future self stood motionless, wand still pointed at him, as if unsure of what came next…

…and Harry, scared out of his wits, and just because of that, realized; the thing he feared most…

"Would you mind, mate?…" He stood up, drew his wand, executed the spell flawlessly.

"…_Riddikulus_!"

CRACK.

Two five-sided cardboard frames soared and squashed his doppelganger flat. He took his time to read the caption, printed in golden italic, as his bidimensional counterpart banged helplessly against the frame:

_CHOCOLATE FROGS CARD #987: HARRY POTTER (1980 - ?)_

_Commonly known as 'The Boy Who Lived' after surviving a Killing Curse that resulted in the temporary defeat of You-Know-Who (see Chocolate Frogs Card #976), Harry Potter subsequently tried to fix something that wasn't broken and altered time itself in an ill-devised attempt to make things better for him and his beloved ones. His current whereabouts, temporal location and mental sanity are a favourite subject of discussion for Quibbler contributors . _

"Ha!" Harry cried, waving his wand one last time. The Boggart exploded with a loud crack.

It was more sarcastic than outright funny, Harry thought, but hey, you gotta take what is given.

He gave himself a tidy up ("Ever heard of combs, scruffy?" said the mirror over the sink as he checked a last time) and returned to the compartment.

Ron looked up as the door slid and Harry came in. "Bibbya fee foabob yoway feah?" he spoke through a mouthful of Chocolate Cauldron.

"_Lo siento, no comprendo_" Harry said with a weak smile.

The other boy swallowed the cud and tried again. "Did you see a toad on your way here?"

"No, why?" Harry said, frowning inwardly. He had meant to be back in time for meeting Neville – he was high on the list of people Harry had wronged – but the accident with the Boggart had played havoc with his schedule, not to mention that his knees still seemed to want to bend at the slightest occasion; just a friendly reminder of how even the slightest mishap could have unpredicted consequences.

"A boy dropped by while you were in the john, he's lost his toad," Ron explained in an uninvolved tone. He proceeded to express his pity for outmoded toad-owners and proposed Harry to watch him turn Scabbers yellow.

Harry nodded enthusiastically as if he was about to jump off his skin at the very idea, but Ron's so-called spell had nothing to do with it: he was going to meet Hermione again.

Right on cue, the door slid open again and Neville's round face appeared only to be immediately eclipsed by Hermione's bushel of frizzy hair. Even with her best businesslike attitude on, she was still beaming compared to the stern and withdrawn witch Harry had grown accustomed to.

"Has anyone seen a toad?" she enquired. "Neville's lost one…"

She spotted Ron's wand and was about to speak again, but Harry sprinted up first.

"Neville? Are you Neville _Longbottom_?" he said, and at Neville's timid nod, "Pleased to meet you, Neville. I'm Harry Potter."

Hermione gave a small gasp and her eyes travelled between the two of them. Neville's eyes went wide; his hand was a bit limp when Harry shook it enthusiastically. Not only he seemed shocked at the idea that the Boy Who Lived knew him, but he looked he could have done without the attention. However, he collected his wits enough for a stammered reply.

"My p-pleasure… Harry," he said, sounding a bit like Quirrell.

"Are you really _that_ Harry Potter?" Hermione said, turning to him. "I know all about you – you're in _Modern Magical History _and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts _and_Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century..._"

"Really? Please tell me I don't have my own Chocolate Frogs card, too," Harry said, trying to hold back that flood. Ron laughed.

"If you do, Harry, I'm still missing you. I'm Ron Weasley, by the way." He stood up, the better to shake hands with the two newcomers; his delight at being on a first-name basis with the Boy Who Lived couldn't have been more evident.

"Hermione Granger."

"Want to have a seat? We've got plenty of space and food to share."

"Thank you, but we really need to find Trevor" Neville said wistfully. "That's my toad."

And they left to carry on with their quest.

"How did you know him?" Ron asked after they were gone.

Harry shrugged and began the careful construction of his alibi. "Well, I found a..."

As if on cue, the door slid open again. Harry took a deep breath and wished that he wasn't still edgy from the Boggart incident: he'd need all his cool for what was coming.

And sure enough, Draco Malfoy peered in, his cold pale eyes scanning Harry from scar to toe. He was flanked as usual by his two beasts of burden breathing down on him, like an evil Baby Jesus; Harry's wand hand clutched the edge of his T-shirt of its own accord, fingernails digging into the palm through the threadbare fabric.

"Is it true? They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?" There was already a hint of coldness in his voice, like Harry had failed to live up to some unspoken expectation.

"I am," was Harry's polite reply. "And you are…?"

"My name is Draco Malfoy" the boy announced with an air of importance, holding out his hand. Harry stood up nonchalantly and shook it.

Since Harry wasn't looking at Crabbe and Goyle, Malfoy didn't feel the need to introduce them. Harry had never understood how he could have been raised by his stilted parents and still lack the bare bones of social manners.

"My pleasure. Meet Ronald Weasley, a friend," Harry said, gesturing towards Ron and pretending not to notice how his flaming red eyebrows had bunched up in a frown at the mention of the name Malfoy.

Draco, who had been ignoring Ron deliberately, produced a knowing smile and made a show of putting his hands in his pockets again. "Well, that I could see for myself," he sneered. "Red hair and freckles, Muggle clothing and a worm-holed wand. If my father hadn't told me about the Weasleys, I'd have guessed that a tramp had boarded the Express."

Ron stood up as if he'd been scalded. Harry stepped in between, verbally if not physically.

"What? Mate, worn is the new black. Ever heard of _deconstructed clothes_? You just stumbled into the coolest cats on the train, Malfoy. Get with it."

He spread his arms wide, the better to let the others check his chalky shirt and his ripped, turned-up jeans with camel humps at the knees, and gratified Draco with a big shit eating grin.

Ron burst out laughing, while Malfoy's nostrils went wide; either he had just realized his own _faux pas_, or Harry had just slipped even lower in his chart. The latter must have been the case, because he said somewhat forcedly:

"Want to sit with us for the rest of the ride, Potter? There are some people to whom I'd like to introduce you."

Harry checked his wristwatch. "There's just not enough time. We still have to change into robes."

"Well, see you at the Sorting then." The boy nodded curtly, beckoned to his minions and left. Harry sat down, figuring Draco had given up on him as a hopeless case. Nothing that couldn't be fixed, though; he was prepared to befriend the ferret, but at his own conditions and without alienating anyone else in the process.

"So that's the young Malfoy," Ron muttered as he took off his jacket. "You've met him before?"

Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley.

"It adds up. I've heard of his family," Ron continued. "They're into Dark magic up to their eyes, but they get away with it because his father's a big name with the Ministry. Officers who have a run-in with him have a history of being transferred to the Hebrides, Dad says." His eyes twinkling, Ron assumed a dignified tone that Harry recognized as on loan from Percy. "However, don't let my views affect your judgement."

Harry let out a hearty laugh. "I dunno, Ron." He mocked Draco's upper-class inflection: "_'There are some people to whom I'd like to introduce you.'_ Sure, the boy needs his attitude checked, and to lay off the bleach for a while, but he can't be _evil_ already, can he?"

"Hmm," Ron commented, and that ended the discussion; Harry pondered how Ron could have missed mentioning that the Malfoys had been in league with Voldemort.

_Just give it some leeway_, said a little arguing voice inside his head, a voice that he'd come to associate with his mentor. _You need to be able to discriminate between what is important and what is not. This time you didn't find a spinach flavoured Bean either, are you going to fret over that too?_

Hermione came into the compartment one last time, but since they were already changed into school robes, she had little to tell them off for.

At last the Hogwarts Express came to a halt alongside a tiny, dusky platform; they dismounted and followed Hagrid to the lake shore under the darkening sky, taking in their first sight of Hogwarts at the end of the rise. Even Harry felt his eyes dampen at the sight of the castle in its pristine state, with its spires and battlements and lights reflected by the crystalline surface of the lake. On Hagrid's orders, they boarded the boats; once again, Harry and Ron were rejoined by Hermione and Neville.

"Hello there. Did you find Trevor?"

"No," Neville sniffed. "He keeps running away from me."

There wasn't much to say after that, and they kept silent for the rest of the journey.

The prow of their boats came to a scraping halt against a pebbly shore and the first-year disembarked, a flock of black-robed lambs tottering and huddling to each other as Hagrid gave the vessels a last once-over.

"Oi, you there! Is that your toad?"

"TREVOR!"

Ron rolled his eyes and Hermione hid a smile behind her hand as Neville ran off to collect his familiar with a cry of unashamed relief. Then they followed the oscillating glow of Hagrid's lamp further up, until they came out in the open again, on a dewy lawn under a sky pin-cushioned with stars.

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?" Hagrid asked before knocking on the massive oak doors.

Neville clung on to Trevor so tightly that the poor beast's bulging eyes looked on the verge of popping out, and the whispering and shuffling ceased immediately as the doors opened and Professor McGonagall appeared on the flight of stairs that lead into Hogwarts.

Her hard eyes seemed to bore into the students as she gave first-years the standard speech; she was wearing the emerald-green robes Harry had always seen on her in the most formal occasions – most of them having been funerals. A surge of shame ran through him, and he bowed his head and stared at the ground, as a memory of their last heated discussion came to the forefront of his mind.

He was so lost in miserable recollections that he hardly noticed the appearance of the ghosts: they floated through the wall and above the students, sending a few hearts into callisthenics. One wondered whether, in spite of their joviality, they secretly got a kick out of scaring ickle firsties every year.

Finally, McGonagall came back to allow them inside; Harry gave himself a shake and marched into Hogwarts together with the other first-years, passing under the high enchanted ceiling and the floating candles on their way to the far side of the Great Hall.

They came to a halt in a disorderly bunch and a few of them jolted as the Sorting Hat burst into song, but Harry, already familiar with enchanted objects, looked at the teachers' High Table instead.

There he was, looking like a tar stain between Dumbledore's flamboyant attire and Quirrell's garish turban: Professor Snape, a bitter enemy that Harry was bound by word of honour to appease by any means necessary.

Easier said than done; he could feel the weight of the Potion Master's inscrutable gaze, like a heavy hand keeping him down and at a distance. He sighed and reminded himself that this was not the man he knew; not yet. Not Severed, not the Halved Prince, not the gaunt and unyielding figure that had gone at him relentlessly for the last five years, hammer and tongs, reforging him to the point that Harry loathed his former persona more than Voldemort himself.

And now the time had come to assay the temper. Harry closed his eyes and straightened his back. He was prepared; he would not fail.

Then Hannah Abbott's name was called out loud and everything started anew.


	4. 4 The Worst Joke Ever

**Rating:** M.

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated characters belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Acknowledgments:** to my invaluable beta, Gryffinpuff, for telling me I was heading in the wrong direction. 

4. The Worst Joke Ever

"See, the luck I've had  
Would make a good man turn bad  
So please, please, please  
Let me get what I want this time"

THE SMITHS, _Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want  
_

* * *

"Harry Potter?"

"_That_ Harry Potter?"

"Can't be. He'd have to be five feet ten, and surely he don't need glasses…"

Harry stepped forward to the stool among the whispers and murmurs, stood on the seat and placed the Hat on his head. The well-known little voice, somewhere in his ear, said 'Well, well, famous Harry Potter, eh?' So where shall I…

…and then nothing more. 

He sat still with his back stiff, waiting for all hell to break loose. Was he going to be denounced as a fraud and a murderer in front of the Great Hall? Perhaps he had damaged the Hat, caused it to enter a temporal loop itself as it weighed up his quintessence? 

He let out a quivering sigh when the Hat spoke again, but the relief was short-lived.

'…We can't go on meeting like this, Harry.'

'You_saw_…?' Harry whispered, his back clenched again from the sudden realization.

'…quite a lot' the Hat replied. 'That's some task you're undertaking. And… I see that you are prepared to go to great lengths to achieve your end.'

Memories floated behind Harry's eyes: a garbage bag hitting the bottom of a ditch; blackness, whirling; "We have reached a parting of the ways", and Dumbledore's blue eyes filled with unfathomable sadness as the man turned away from him; more whirling blackness; Hermione, gesturing frantically as she strived to drive the point home: "Awful things happened to wizards who meddle with time, Harry!" 

'She knew better' he acknowledged. 'I wish that there had been another way.'

'I know that,' the Hat offered, 'just as I know that your sorrow is heartfelt. Do not worry, Harry Potter. I have been privy to countless things and kept many a secret since old Godric, may he be blessed, took me off his head.'

'So… you will help me?' Harry asked.

'I'll offer what help I can. Envisioning possibilities is my line of work, and, at a day per year, I'm hardly overworked.' Harry felt the amusement in the Hat's voice. 'You may come and see me sometimes, when you have a dull moment in the House of…'

"…SLYTHERIN!"

The last word had been spoken out loud.

Harry went cold. He felt numb; he felt betrayed; he felt as if all blood had vacated his body. He willed the Sorting Hat back with all his might, but the little voice remained stubbornly quiet. The silence under the brim seemed to mock him.

Suddenly the Hat was lifted from his head in a swoop. He looked up and saw the unreadable expression of Minerva McGonagall.

"Is everything all right, Mr Potter?" she asked. There was a distinct stiffness to her voice and Harry knew he wasn't the only one expecting the Sorting to go very differently.

_No, nothing is all right, Professor, _he wanted to say. _Because I've spent the last years in my private hell only to sort out the mess I've made, and this waste of cowhide just had to go and throw a wrench in it._

"Would you mind?" a second voice called, making Harry jolt: Lisa Turpin was standing in front of him, obviously waiting for her turn. He stood up, dazed, and looked at the teacher's table. 

Professor Dumbledore was stroking his white beard and sent Harry a fleeting smile that was maybe meant to be encouraging, but his blue eyes seemed to want to bore into him nonetheless. Hagrid watched him like he was a Thestral with a broken leg that would have to be put down. Quirrell looked absolutely nonplussed. But it was Snape who upset Harry more.

The man was smiling.

Harry had already seen that kind of smile once, when Dudley had been given a pet rabbit for his birthday, and he felt his insides turn into cold slime. After the few first, horrific days, Harry had summoned enough pity to defy Dudley's wrath and set the bunny free, but Snape was a different beast altogether; Harry would be dead long before anyone figured something was wrong…

He found himself surrounded by disgruntled looks and found out his feet had carried him to the Gryffindor table out of habit. Across the Hall, someone whistled.

"Hey, Potter! This way!"

It was Draco Malfoy, gleaming and beckoning for him to join. The Slytherin table seemed to be all the way down a long dark tunnel, and uphill at that. Apparently, Goyle had been moved to make a place for him – the bench was still warm as Harry sat down, numb, his head a chaotic beehive of thoughts. The other Slytherins appeared as dumbstruck as he was, and introduced themselves very formally, many glancing at the scar on his forehead but no one daring to look him in the eye. All this time, Malfoy was going on a ramble somewhere to his left, patting him on the back as if wanting to be sure he was the real thing; his personal wet dream turned true. He perceived a word out of three, but the sense wasn't difficult to figure out:

"Knew you had it in you, Potter… can expect great things… need someone to guide you around… a counsellor…" He sounded like Harry had had to wrestle his way to Slytherin through an entire army group.

A shiver ran through Harry's back as he briefly shook Theodore Nott's hand and he had to suppress the urge to crush the weedy boy's wand hand, make him kneel beside the table and administer a gruesome curse on the spot. Nott broke contact hastily, leaving Harry with his hand still held out and wondering how much of his inner turmoil must have transpired. He sat down heavily, lost in recollections. True, he had taken a vow to spare – to _save_ – as many Slytherin as he could... but he had also taken a vow to avenge his best friend's death. And when it came to Theodore Nott, the two were mutually exclusive.

Professor McGonagall shouted "Zabini, Blaise!" and Harry realized he had missed Ron being sorted into Gryffindor, which was probably for the best; he couldn't find it in himself to cheer. He stole a look at the red and gold table and saw the older Weasleys patting their brother on the shoulder and pinching his cheeks. They were less than ten paces away, but they might as well have been on the moon.

Blaise Zabini sat on the stool for quite a long time, with his eyes closed; the Hat kept frowning and mumbling.

"Sort the ruddy Dago and be done with it, I'm _starving_!" Goyle growled. 

Through the grey haze of his misery, Harry heard himself snort.

_You're going to have a nice surprise when the _ruddy Dago_ gets to be your roommate for seven years, Goyle_. At least Zabini hadn't become a Death Eater; perhaps, he could be…

Suddenly the Hat straightened up.

"RAVENCLAW!" it shouted. The table across Slytherin erupted in a welcoming roar.

…_the hell?_ Harry gagged, as students in blue-trimmed robes stood up and shook hands with their newest member. He looked around, spotting other changes in the House arrangements. Ernie McMillan had been made a Gryffindor and was now sitting right where Harry would be, between Ron and Nearly-Headless Nick; and Terry Boot was a Hufflepuff instead. He hadn't paid attention because he didn't expect the Sorting to go any different; what had gone wrong?

The rest of the banquet proceeded with the slow pace of a rainy Sunday. Harry took the opportunity to study the girls – not as easy as one might think, because every time Harry so much as raised his head, he found the entire table staring at him.

Pansy Parkinson he knew already, and knew she had set her sights on Malfoy from early on, but not _so_ early… She was sitting two places down, but she didn't miss a beat, giggling when he laughed, pouting when he frowned, smiling when he did. It was a real shame that her performance was wasted: Draco was too busy preening in his glorified Slytherininess to pay her any attention.

Millicent Bulstrode was another old acquaintance; she was loading her plate with enough fodder to feed a Hippogriff, surveying her fellow housemates from under furrowed eyebrows as if daring them to say anything. The other three girls were ciphers; two seemed old friends and were chatting animatedly, the third was picking at her food. She looked as happy about her Sorting as Harry did about his, and he wished he could remember her name.

The Bloody Baron made his appearance, but he was not as frivolous as Nearly-Headless Nick, and not half as nice; he took a place at the end of the table and cleared his throat with a rasping sound. 

"Fellow students," he announced. "Last year, Slytherin won the House Cup for the sixth time in a row. I expect you to do the deed and make sure that it remains with us for another year." 

His voice was a rusty iron scraping a rock, and the blood stains on his torn clothes glittered like quicksilver. One cursory glance at him, and Malfoy immediately lost any interest both in the food and in the conversation. Harry, deeply grateful for this minor miracle, filled his plate and ate mechanically, not really feeling the taste of anything. Crabbe and Goyle were trying to find out which one of them could hold the largest number of meatballs in his mouth, which didn't help in the slightest.

At last, Dumbledore decided to call it a day; he warned the student body about the Forbidden Forest (some students laughed), casting spells outside classes (_all_ students laughed) and the third floor corridor (no one laughed), and directed them into a rendition of "Hoggy Warty Hogwarts" that was the musical equivalent of a train wreck. After the song ended – the Weasley twins again dragging out their own performance into a mournful funeral march, which Harry found entirely appropriate – students were led off to their dormitories.

Prefects from the House of the Serpent were freshly instated and, as such, took their role very seriously. The boy looked as if he might be related to the Bloody Baron; he was just as pale and had the same blank, staring eyes that seemed to go right through people. The female Prefect was fine-looking, but she seemed afraid that her face might crack if she had smiled. They lead the first-years through a maze of damp stone corridors, until they came to a dead end against a bare wall.

"_Ouroboros,_" the girl spoke. "That's the password. You'd better not forget it."

The wall slid forward and then aside, leading them to the Slytherin common room. Harry had seen it once, in his second year, and wasn't looking forward to repeat the experience, much less spend years of his life in the Snake Pit. 

The common room was long and dark, with walls and floor of rough stone, glistening with moisture. Green globes hung from the low ceiling, casting a dim light that didn't reach the farthest corners.

Snape was already in there, waiting for them; straight-backed, imposing and haughty in his overflowing black robes, his arms crossed, the better to further the distance from his fellow humans.

Since he was clearly going to give them a pep-talk, they stood quietly around him in a half-circle. 

"Welcome to your new home," Snape began, sounding less than welcoming and not at all homey. 

"Over the centuries, the Slytherin House has produced great and powerful wizards and witches; from these walls, hundreds of years of noble tradition are watching you and demanding that you prove yourself worthy. As your Head of House, it is my duty to make sure you perfection, from your grades and behaviour to your – his eyes drifted to Harry's untidy hair – attire."

So why don't you set an example and wash your hair, Slimeball? Harry thought, his face a mask, thankful that Severed had included mimics control in his syllabus. Being immune from Legilimancy wouldn't get him far if his face kept conveying his feelings for everyone to see.

"Should you find yourself unable to maintain the required standards, I will obligingly discuss the possibility of you receiving some… degree of education… at an institution other than Hogwarts," the Potions Master went on. 

From his words, it sounded like quitting Hogwarts was the absolute demotion, complete with rolling drums and torn chevrons. At this point, first-years looked terrified. Even Draco was standing on attention, too intimidated even to blink.

"Then again, you _made_ Slytherin, and that has to mean something," Snape continued on a more soothing note. "Which brings me to a crucial point. Some people... have no respect for the values our House embodies. Gryffindor students will be particularly zealous and particularly to be feared. To them, the Sorting marks you as liars, cheaters, disciples of the Dark Arts, spawn of evil... and the badge on your chest is a target of choice." 

A collective growl erupted from the students' throats. Harry joined in, but for different reasons. Snape's eyes zeroed in on him and narrowed, as if he was considering a new and unpleasant development.

"And undoubtedly their hostility will escalate to unprecedented amounts now that the Slytherin House, through deviousness and malice, has secured the renown Harry Potter for itself."

First-years and Prefects alike looked disapprovingly at Harry, who gritted his teeth. Oh, that had been _wonderful_. Now every point taken from Slytherin, every prank played on one of its student, could and would be pinned on him personally; as an opening move, it was a masterstroke. After Harry had been glared at for a short eternity, Snape gracefully changed the subject.

"Prefects are also in charge of maintaining discipline. Show them the respect you would to a teacher. Slytherin's are Mr Prescott and Miss Fisher. I will leave you to their care; listen carefully and do as they say. That will be all." And he set off in a billowing of robes.

Prescott stepped forward, bowed to Snape's receding back and waited for the Head of Slytherin House to disappear outside the Common Room before he started his own drill.

"You probably expect me to show you the ropes, teach you a few social niceties, and all that, right? Well, forget it: I'm not your house-elf. I'm _confident_ that you'll figure out things for yourself soon enough," he said, relying heavily on Snape's mannerism.

"You may have already heard about the House Cup at this point. I want it made clear that you are going to take this matter seriously. In so many words_, you will not cost Slytherin House points._ Fail to do so, and I'll make your stay at Hogwarts as unpleasant as possible. Any questions?"

Harry was about to raise his hand, when the little voice spoke. 

_Don't,_ it said. _So you're a Slytherin. So what? What are you going to do, ask out? You swore an oath, remember? You __**owe**__. It's not about you. It's not –_

But the little voice was right for all the wrong reason. Yes, he would miss Ron's jokes and the company of Hermione, watching the twins torment Percy and Wood's insufferable enthusiasm. But he had not gone through this only for the fun and games; he had grown past it.

They had worked for five years under the assumption that Harry would be sorted into Gryffindor; it was the keystone around which the entire strategy had been devised. Harry didn't know Slytherin dynamics well enough – what Severed had offered on the subject wouldn't fill a page of Cliff Notes. He was going to fail; he had already failed, before he'd even have a chance of trying. As soon as he was alone, a well-known intruder would sneak up from behind him and the last thing he'd see would be a flash of green light.

A shiver ran down his spine. Perhaps it wasn't too late, perhaps they would hear him out. His hand shot up. Prescott turned to him…

Before he could speak, however, something else happened.

The girl who had been picking at her food all evening suddenly sucked in an impressive amount of air, let out a howl like a werewolf about to transform, and burst out crying.

Prescott's contemptuous stance disintegrated into a Neville-like expression; the female Prefect, who had been silent so far, sighed and rushed to kneel in front of the crying girl, who had her face hidden in her hands and was bawling uncontrollably. The other girls, Harry noticed, were quietly stepping away as if this could be the expression of something contagious and the boys, pushed back, shuffled towards Prescott. The Prefect nervously ran a hand through his hair.

"It was too good to last."

"What's wrong with her?" Malfoy asked, his face shrunk under the combined effect of a frown and a sneer.

Prescott sighed. "Sometimes, people don't take the Sorting well."

The girl was now sobbing against Prefect Fisher's shoulder and snotting her robes; among the muffled sniffs the only word that could be made out was "Ravenclaw."

"What has she got to complain?" Malfoy argued. "I mean, it's not like she ended up in Huff!…" 

The sentence was ended abruptly when Nott elbowed him in the ribs. Draco cast a venomous look at him, but shut up nevertheless.

"Does this happen often?" Harry asked.

Prescott shrugged. "Well – often enough. My father's family has been in Hufflepuff since Helga was a lass. He didn't jump for joy when I owled them the news. You boys are all right, aren't you? Because I'm crap at this touchy-feely business." His eyes darted nervously to each of them and everyone, even Harry, nodded coolly. 

The girl – her name, it turned out, was Tracey – looked somewhat calmer now; she apologized to the Prefects and her classmates for the scene she had caused and rejoined her fellow girls, sniffing a bit. Prefect Fisher Scourgified her wet robes and the Prefects left.

First-years ventured to their sleeping quarters and split: girls right, boys left. Their dormitory was another low-vaulted room of unrefined stone, with windows taking the most part of one of the long sides. Judging by how the trunks had been arranged, the house-elves were already privy to the pecking order, because Malfoy's four poster was between Crabbe and Goyle's; Harry and Nott's beds were separated by the entrance door. There was a stove going in the middle of the room, like in the Gryffindor tower, but the air was dank nonetheless and smelled faintly, like dried sludge. The owl cages were empty, but a thatched carrier was sitting on Nott's trunk and a glass terrarium poised onto Crabbe's bedpost held what had to be the largest and wartiest toad ever.

"Why did you have to hit me?" Draco complained soon as the door closed behind them.

"Because you were about to step in it?" Nott suggested. "Don't worry, it won't happen again." His thin face gripped in a frown, Nott cast a glance around, shook his head, and hopped onto his bed, still dressed.

"How did you know about Prescott, Nott?"

Nott had taken his familiar, a sleek, black pussycat, out of the travel basket and was stroking her fur, absent-mindedly. The cat purred like an overboard engine. "I guessed," Nott answered plainly. "Now if you'll all excuse me," and he drew the curtains shut.

Put off by that abrupt dismissal, Harry shrugged and stood up. Crabbe and Goyle were having a trunk-lifting contest now, complete with grunts and other noises; he turned away, stared at his own face reflected into the dark window as bad thoughts revolved _ad nauseam_ in his head.

"What's the matter, Potter? Homesick, already?"

Harry turned around. The smirk on Malfoy's face resembled a grin more than a sneer, but, even so, it was hardly the kind of smile Harry would file under 'friendly'. Or maybe he just hadn't recovered from his banter with Nott.

"Hardly."

"Oh, right. I gathered you live with those Muggle relatives of yours. How are they?"

"I… I don't really want to talk about it."

Malfoy made a face. "Is it really _that_ bad? I should've known," he said, patting Harry's shoulder lightly. 

Harry blinked. Malfoy had just apologized to him? He stood still, waiting and half-hoping for the world to spin out of his axis and plunge into the Sun. But Malfoy just went on.

"Fancy a game of Snap?"

"Not really. I'm worn out."

And he was. But after he changed into his pyjamas and climbed to his bed, he saw that the posts under the green velvet canopy were carved in the shape of entwined snakes, and his drowsiness vanished. As his roommates settled down and fell asleep, he lay awake on his bed, wand at the ready, expecting an imminent attack, and when sleep finally claimed him, he had a nightmare. 

_He was trying to reach the third floor and the Stone, but the corridors kept turning in on themselves and getting narrow and darker, until a hand emerged from behind a corner and slammed him with his back against the wall, wandtip painfully propped against his breastbone._

"_Would you mind, __**mate**...?"_

_There was a bitter, cold laughter. The scar under the black fringe stood out like a lightning and the flash of green light reflected in the round glasses…_

"Potter!_Potter!_ Wake up, for Merlin's sake!"

Harry sat up in mid-scream and found himself face to face with Malfoy. His chest was burning. The room was bathed in the cold light of a _Lumos_ charm, and the shadows on the wall jumped with every movement of the wand, like deformed giants.

Harry clutched at his pyjamas, rubbing his aching chest under the flannel. "What the hell have you done to me?"

"Just_Enervate_, you wouldn't wake up."

"Well don't you _ever_ cast spells on me when I'm asleep, or you'll..."

"You were thrashing around like a labouring dragon. What in Salazar's name were you dreaming about?"

Harry's jaw clutched. He couldn't say the truth. He couldn't say the truth… he went for the closest thing available.

"I dreamed of Voldemort," he lied.

The reaction wasn't quite what he expected: rather than gasping or looking terrified, his roommates stared at him in awe.

"So… you _saw_ him? You remember him? How's he like?"

"How dumb are you, Goyle? Do you _want_ me to tell you? So we can scream our lungs out in tune?" Harry shouted. 

"Leave him in peace" Malfoy said quickly at the same time. "Potter's got enough on his plate without you pestering him for the Dark Lord's portrait."

But in the meanwhile, the little voice was speaking. _Why not? They're going to find out for themselves soon enough._

Harry let out a sigh. "…It's not like I remember much anyway."

"What do you remember?" another voice asked.

Harry turned around and saw Nott standing between their beds, his familiar looking up from between his bare ankles with yellow startled eyes. The boy's eyes were wide and his thin face taut, as if he didn't want to know even if he wanted to know, and Harry suddenly remembered he could see Thestrals, too. 

"It starts… with my mother screaming. Then I hear this cold laughter, and an incantation… and see red eyes staring at me. Then everything turns bright green. And the laughter dies - croaks. There is a wheeze that fades to silence… and the whooshing of the wind above my head, where the roof used to be."

"Wow" Crabbe let out. "That's the Killing Curse. How – how'd you survive _that_?"

_You'd love to know, wouldn't you, my dear little Death Suckler?_

"Leave him alone," Malfoy's cold voice said; Harry leaned forward, peering from the green curtains. Malfoy jumped down the bed and walked to Harry's four-poster. 

"You might have heard about my father, Lucius Malfoy" he said. "Back when the Dark Lord was in power, he was put under the Imperius curse and… well, he never speaks about it, but… he still wakes up screaming in the middle of the night. It's been ten years now, he's on the school board, he gives to charity… but the nightmares just won't let go. Just as some people do. The Dark Lord has ruined the lives of many" he concluded, giving Harry a sympathetic look.

Malfoy ended his touching confession and Harry became aware that his jaw was hanging open; he shut it with an audible clack. Of the options at hand – pretending to believe him; curse him to a bloody pulp; burst out crying and hug him like they were on "Surprise, Surprise" – he went for feigning ignorance.

"What do you mean, 'under imperious'?" he asked.

"'Tis a curse. Makes people do what you say," Goyle answered; his vocabulary seemed to be made entirely of monosyllables.

Harry shook his head, determined to show Malfoy that he wasn't buying it. "But no one made my Mum and Dad do anyhting… They were just_killed._"

"You're right, Potter. Your parents were _just_ killed." Nott offered, and shrugged. "Others were not so lucky."

Now what is this about? Harry wondered. But before he could vent his opinions on the matter, an angry hiss from Fisher outside the door informed them that they had awakened the Prefects, and they only had to keep it up another minute if they wanted to start their career at Hogwarts with a detention.

* * *

_Next: Welcome to the Pit. Hope you survive the experience. _


	5. 5 They Pray with Snakes

Destined to Repeat It, Chapter 4

**Rating:** M.

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated characters belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Acknowledgements:** to my beta, Gryffinpuff, who tries to make this better; and to my daughter, who sometimes has the grace to fall asleep as early as 11:30 PM and lets Mum type a sentence or two.

5. They Pray With Snakes

It's dark as a dungeon and damp as the dew,  
Where danger is double and pleasures are few...

MERLE TRAVIS, _Dark as a Dungeon_

* * *

Harry woke up lightly and curled into a ball, trying to squeeze out the cold that had seeped under the blankets and into his bones. What a nightmare; he had been sorted into Slytherin and his successor had_ Avada Kedavra_'d him in the dungeons_._ There was Malfoy, trying to get into his good graces. He'd need to tell Hermione next time she visited, she always liked to go all Sigmund Freud about his dreams, pick them apart for signs of impending madness...

He awoke completely, opened his eyes and froze, a scream fighting for a way out of his clenched throat: his nightmare had followed him into reality. Everywhere he looked, there was that green venomous light drowning every other colour. Malfoy was up already and gazing dreamily through the windows, bathed in that deathly glow. His skin, usually pale, was the colour of a pickled toad's belly and the hair on his head had a tinge like dried seaweed.

"Look what the Kneazle brought in," he scoffed as Harry lay paralysed in the bed, crumpling the sheets with white-knuckled fists. "Come and take a look, Potter. Isn't it _wonderful?_"

Harry collected his wits. They were under the lake; of course the light would look green, with the algae growing on the window panes. This was no dream. He had returned.

And he really was in Slytherin now.

He let out a quivering sigh as the last tatters of the dream dissipated. How long would it take before the nightmare came true and another voyager from the future arrived for real to rectify the mistake?

_Wait. I'm an idiot._

The Sorting could not be undone, it was stated in _Hogwarts: a History_ (Hermione had made sure he'd know it by heart this time). If his House placement posed an insurmountable obstacle to the success of his mission, then he ought to have been already replaced, so no real harm had been done yet. The realization made his blood flow faster; he jumped out of bed with renewed enthusiasm and joined his housemate in front of the windows.

Malfoy was right: the view _was_ beautiful, at least for people who didn't suffer from recurrent teal-tinted nightmares. The windows all faced the lake from underneath, and every now and then a droplet of water would ooze from the putty around the windows, like a silvery pearl. As they stood watching, a Grindylow swam by, pulling faces as it went. Harry pressed his palm against the glass, figuring the immense pressure of the water on the other side. A stinging feeling ran up his arm, and he immediately retracted his hand; contact with the windows had the effect of an ice burn.

Malfoy had been studying him eagerly and the little incident didn't escape his attention. He pressed his hand against the windows in turn, gauging the temperature; then turned to Harry and drawled, "Don't like the cold?"

"I'll get used to it," Harry lied, as a new wave of goosebumps washed upon his back: his arm was so cold its bones were aching. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Come on, boys!" Malfoy had passed him and was prodding the figures lying under the blankets with his wand. "Time for breakfast!"

It took some time and a few Stinging Hexes to wake up Goyle, and although Crabbe spent a reasonable amount of time in the bathroom, no one could hear the water running; but finally they were dressed up and ready to go. Harry checked his watch as they crossed a narrow corridor; they were early. He could drop by the Gryffindor table and spend some time there. Chat up to Ron and Hermione and Neville, pretend he hadn't noticed how the two Houses looked daggers at each other…

"_Petrificus_ _Totalis!_"

Harry's legs mutinied, as did his arms, while the room somersaulted around him. The floor soared to greet him in the flesh, in painstaking slow motion; he had all the time to examine the little balls of fluff in the cracks between the stones and calculate the exact spot that would take credit for his imminent nosebleed.

A thousand firecrackers lit in his skull as he touched down. One lens of his glasses cracked; he rolled to one side like a felled tree, and lay still.

What was that for? Frantically, he scanned the corridor out of the corner of his eye, but for what he could see it was empty: his assailant – _their_ assailant? assailants? – had already vanished. Just a prank, apparently, and just for the hell of it – even if the events of the previous evening had seemed to take place in a dense fog, Harry was quite sure he hadn't mortally offended anyone.

At least, not yet.

_Petrified, broken nose… this sure rings a bell, _he thought. But there would be no Auror coming to the rescue this time: there was nothing he could do, save wait for the spell to wear itself out. Little comfort came from the sight of Draco lying a few feet to his left. He had been luckier than Harry in that he hadn't fallen on his nose, but he was drooling on the floor from a mouth open in stupor, and his eyes wide open seemed to plead for an explanation.

Minutes crawled by, as slow as flowing molasses. Crabbe was the first to move, but he had no idea how to cast _Finite_ and the only way that sprung to his mind, to speed up the recovery of his frozen companions, was to shake them savagely, by the collar, two at a time: by the time Harry regained sensibility to his limbs, his glasses were askew, his robe ripped, and his hair worse than ever.

"What the hell was that for?" Malfoy cried as soon as he was able to speak, as they patted the dust from his robes. "Those damned Weasleys, Father had warned us about them! I'm going to tell Snape, he'll send them packing...!"

"Don't be a prat, Malfoy. We're not even out of the Slytherin quarters, how would they get in? Assuming they can find their way in this maze," Harry said grumpily: his previous optimism had vanished again. "What time is it? My watch has stopped."

Draco checked his watch and jolted. "We've been lying here for an hour! Hurry!"

Unsurprisingly, they were late. Luckily, the first lesson was History of Magic: Professor Binns barely seemed to notice them as they entered his classroom muttering apologies, and didn't take points. As Harry sat down, his stomach did the first of that morning's many grumbles.

It turned out quite soon who their mysterious assailants were: the glorious tradition of the Serpent House apparently required that the first-years be tested to destruction.

On return from the lessons, they found a bitter surprise: the room had been given a thorough once-over. The beds were unmade, the pillows ripped and a layer of feathers covered the floor like freshly fallen snow. Remembering a similar scene from his second year, Harry immediately suspected foul play, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw his trunk had been opened and emptied – but the precautions taken by his former self had held: the false bottom was still in place, and Harry's most precious possessions, safe.

That gave him some respite. Quirrell – or Snape, or Dumbledore, for that matter – would have been subtler and more efficient.

Furthermore, what marked the gesture as a prank was the fact that, in spite of the mess, nothing was damaged beyond the reach of a good _Reparo: _wrinkled robes could be pressed, bedsheets washed and inkwells refilled.

Still...

Harry looked at his dorm mates and saw his own disconcert reflected in their eyes: they exchanged silent, meaningful looks, then started cleaning up at once, in a silence only broken by occasional mutterings and apologies when they treaded on each other's feet.

It took a few days for the first-years to appreciate the thoroughness of the treatment: senior Slytherins would give Fred and George a real run for their money, and their antics were all the more remarkable for the brazen face with which they were accomplished. Harry witnessed a fifth-year girl, apparently engrossed in a heated discussion about wizarding etiquette, pull out her wand and hex Daphne Greengrass as she passed by, hide the telltale stick up her sleeve and resume the conversation; all this happened so fast he might have just imagined it.

Though Harry knew the shortcuts through the castle by heart, he was always late to lessons nonetheless, as were his roommates, for reasons completely beyond their control.

The dormitory was being raided on a daily basis, so thoroughly that they started planning their day around the inevitable round of _Pack _and_ Reparo _(and Harry could not fail to notice that although both Malfoy and Nott graciously casted them for him day after day, no one mentioned teaching him the spells) and taking turns at meals so that a pair of them was always standing guard as the others ate: just the one wasn't enough, as they found out the hard way, returning from dinner to the sight of Crabbe lying on the floor unconscious, soapsuds coming out of his nostrils with every breath.

For all their precautions, Goyle had his feet bitten bloody when his own slippers sprouted fangs and chased him all around the room; Nott was nearly strangled by his necktie, which had suddenly become alive and coiled around his neck like a boa constrictor; Harry woke up to the clickety-click of his glasses dancing a merry jig on the bedside table, and sported a shiner for the rest of the morning because he had instinctively tried to put them on to see what was happening. They were plagued all day by weird itches, sores and twinges, and it was not uncommon to see a first-year browsing the Common Room's consultation copy of _Curses And Countercurses_ while dangling upside down from the ceiling or oozing custard from his ears.

It turned out that they did not even have a right to their names: Harry, unsurprisingly, had become Crackpot, and the seniors hadn't put much thought into Crabs, Nuts and Gargle, either, but some evil genius had turned Malfoy into "Small Fry", a moniker that never failed to make Draco seethe and the others chuckle.

The girls had it little better and only moved in a tight pack, wands at the ready, Millicent Bulstrode usually walking backwards to cover the rearguard. Once out of the dungeons they were safe, but the walk to the first floor looked more and more like an assault course as the days went by; Tracey Davis had another meltdown on Wednesday evening, when she positively refused to leave the Great Hall after dinner. Only when Peeves appeared, complete with pillow and nightcap and grinning madly, was she finally convinced to check out.

Apart from the practical jokes, Slytherin operated on a strict seniority rule and Harry and his mates had none.

He would have rather done his homework in the Common Room, where he could pick up some useful gossip, but everybody seemed to do just that and the first-years were always relegated to the coldest, darkest spots. Inkwells, quills and parchment were "borrowed" and never returned, or swapped for Zonko's products, so in the end, as if they had silently agreed to it, they resorted to doing their homework sitting on their beds in the chilly dormitory.

That left Harry holed up for hours in rather unpleasant company. In other circumstances, he would have gladly chosen Nott's quiet detachment over Malfoy's constant chattering, but as it was, he just found it grating: it was like they were all beneath his contempt.

The fact that Crabbe and Goyle were beyond _anyone's_ contempt did not help.

It was not that they were functionally illiterate as Harry had always suspected: in fact, Goyle had brought along a whole year of _Martin Miggs_ with him and Crabbe, at least, knew which side of a textbook was up.

But they did not give a rat's ass about learning and often dozed off as they waited for their liege lord to finish his essay, which they would then copy down hastily in a large, heavy, irregular handwriting that wore out quills by the dozen.

It was like living in confinement. Paying a visit to the library was a laughable idea and stopping at the Gryffindor table a suicidal one; being separated from the herd led to the harshest jinxing. Only Malfoy could wander alone and remain unscathed – hardly surprising as how his father was on the Board of Governors – but the first time his eagle owl brought cakes from home, three huge seventh-years rounded in on him soon as he left the table. The sweets were commandeered, and Malfoy had to trudge back to the dungeons like a toy robot, trying to figure how to Transfigure his knees back on. After that episode, he always kept Crabbe and Goyle as close as a pair of Siamese twins.

Harry could only glance at his former mates from afar: Ron seemed to have acquainted well with three roommates out of four, whereas Neville and Hermione hardly raised their eyes from the breakfast and never took part in the chatter: Ernie McMillan was the only one Harry ever saw initiating a conversation with either of them.

_I'm going to change this, if I have to dare Ron to French-kiss Hermione in the Potions lab_, he thought every morning as he watched the comings and goings at the Gryffindor table; but the more the days passed by, the vaguer his plans became.

* * *

Friday morning found Harry waiting for Hedwig's arrival with bated breath. His spirit sank at the sight of the owl flying in, empty-beaked as usual, and perching on his shoulder for a morsel of bacon and a playful nibble to the ear before returning to her post at the Owlery.

That was hardly unexpected; Hagrid had once joked that he would happily have Slytherins over for tea… if he only could find a large enough cup to dunk them in.

Harry stirred the porridge glumly: another tie that he had always taken for granted had been severed.

_Speaking of which..._

His "first" Potions class was approaching ominously. Harry sighed again, making Pansy Parkinson's eyebrows raise. Damn, she missed _nothing_.

"Lovesick, Potter?" she snickered.

Harry just glared at her from above his glasses.

Handling that first confrontation was something they had rehearsed with care before his departure, but but he was unable to evaluate how his new House placement would affect their state of affairs. He had a hunch, however, that things could only get worse. Snape's hatred of him, like the speed of light, was a fixed constant in all known universes.

The Slytherins had arrived first and were sitting in silence, examining the creepy classroom; the small windows encrusted with the grime of centuries, the burning torches giving away a tawny light, the tall stone benches, caked with curdled spillage; and rows and rows of jars lining the walls, filled with every imaginable filthy thing. There was a lingering smell, half herbalist's, half leper colony. The door opened with a creak and the Gryffindors entered cautiously, looking around. Malfoy having shared a place with Nott, Harry was alone in his bench and looked up hopefully at the newcomers, but they sat down keeping to their half of the class as if an invisible "no trespassing" line had been painted along the floor. Snape entered from a side door, delivered the entire class a scathing look and slammed the door shut with a wave of his wand, making Neville jolt.

The Potions Master took the register, but did not make any particular comment at reaching Harry's name – probably it would be awkward if he had pretended not to know his own students by now. Instead, he curled his nose when he read the last line in the Gryffindor registry.

"…and yet another Weasley," he drawled. "What are your parents going to do when they run out of names? _Whistle_?"

Ron's ears flared red like traffic lights, but he remained silent. Malfoy snorted, which earned him a twitch of the lip by the Potions Master, like the two were sharing a private joke.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making…" Snape began in a whisper.

By the corner of his eye Harry saw that Hermione was already taking notes. He stood still, his hoopoe-feather quill in hand, waiting for the end of the sermon, remembering another time, another Potions class, another teacher...

_The memory from the Pensieve is as clear as icy water and just as cold._

_The Potions lab is not in the dungeons, it is too cold and damp and overall uncomfortable for Slughorn. Even his office is up near the Ravenclaw Tower, some Head of Slytherin he turned out to be..._

_Snape sits alone at a desk in the far corner, in his ill-fitting second-hand robe, too short to cover the frayed trousers and Muggle shoes. He came prepared, he has read the book cover to cover beforehand; this is his great occasion to a good start with his Head of House..._

_Slughorn does the roll call, stopping at the most prominent surnames, asking the students about their relatives and their health; the tactic is so transparent it's pathetic. Some, like Black, answer evasively, others have caught on and seem mildly amused. Neither Snape nor Lily are entitled to a friendly chat. The professor launches himself into a brief introduction about the fine art of potioning, then browses the register again. _

"_Just a little test, to check the entry level," he says jovially. "Mr. Black, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"_

_Black, who was sprawled in his seat and looking out of the window, goggles like a dazzled owl. Snape's hand is up before he realizes it: that is an easy one, Draught of Living Death; the hyperbolic name has been stuck in his mind since he first browsed the book. _

_When it becomes clear that Black does not know the answer, Slughorn just shrugs and chuckles. _

"_Never mind, never mind. Mr. Avery - where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"_

_Snape has his hand up again. The Slytherin boy that throws his family name around a lot is equally at a loss, but this does not seem to irritate Slughorn; the professor ignores Snape's silent plea and pops the third question._

"_Mister... ah, Potter, what's the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"_

_So much for lowering one's sights – this is downright ridiculous. But Potter does not have the slightest idea. Snape is positively itching now, leaning on his bench, right arm almost devoid of blood, please please pick me pick me me me me..._

_And Potter, slouched in his chair like he was at the pub and not in a school, __**shrugs**__. To a Hogwarts teacher._

"_I have no idea, Professor." Then, turning towards Snape with a stupid grin on his face: "Though Snivellus seems to know – why don't you ask him?"_

_The laughter is sudden and horrifying and it comes from both sides of the classroom, Gryffindor and Slytherins alike. Even Slughorn is chuckling behind his moustache as he rebuffs, "Now, now, Potter..."_

"Potter!" Snape's brisk tone brought Harry back to the present. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Hermione's hand shot in the air. Harry produced a strangled sound: '_None, sir_' had nearly escaped his mouth.

"A sleeping potion called the Draught of the Living Death, sir," he offered matter-of-factly.

_Okay, so the questions are in a different order this time around._ What had caused it to change? Was it even significant? He was so busy examining the subtleties of rewinding timelines that he nearly missed the second volley.

"…where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Harry paused. _In the cupboard behind your back _was a proper answer, but surely Snape wouldn't accept that kind of reply from him, so he went for short and sweet. "Inside the stomach of a goat... sir."

There were dim chortles in the dungeon: Harry's answer must have seemed outlandish to the beginners. Snape killed the hilarity with a single glare.

"The stomach of a goat," he repeated, slowly. "Care to be more specific, Potter?"

Harry blinked. That had to be the right answer, it was the same Snape had given himself. What was he playing at?

"A goat has _four_ stomachs, Potter," Snape said, holding out a hand with four fingers extended as if not confident that Harry was able to count to such a large number. "Bezoars form preferentially in the first one, also known as rumen, and to the uncultured, as _paunch_."

A few students dared to smile, but were petrified by Snape's glare.

"You find this funny, do you? Would you still laugh if your best friend was dying of poisoning and you were standing aside like a gagging idiot, unable to help?"

That last one came so close to home that Harry felt a shiver run down his spine: Snape definitely had a point there. The Potion Master rounded in on him.

"No uncertainty is allowed in Potions, Potter; a miss is a good as a mile. A successful brew is the result of hours of patient, tidy labour supported by precise knowledge. For your information, a bezoar is a calcified concretion of vegetable matter and it will save you from most poisons. What's the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane…?"

Hermione's hand shot up again, in a kind of Nazi salute.

"…None?" Harry replied eagerly.

"…Miss Granger?" Snape concluded, baring uneven teeth in a wolf-like grin.

Harry gritted his teeth; Hermione was so taken aback that she nearly choked. When she managed to reply, the answer came out in a single burst: "They-are-the-same-plant-which-is-also-called-aconite-professor."

"Good. One point to Gryffindor..." Snape smiled, then turned to Harry, who caught up and gritted his teeth.

"...and one from Slytherin, for speaking out of turn."

By now Harry had seen it coming, and managed to keep his mouth shut, but the others gave a collective gasp as if the air had been Banished from the dungeon: from the shocked reaction of both classes, it would seem that the natural order of the universe had just been subverted.

"_Well_?" Snape's defiant gaze swept through the whole class, as if daring them to say anything. "Why aren't you all _copying this down_?"

There was a flurry of activities as parchments were unrolled and inkwells screwed open, and in a matter of seconds the only sound that could be heard was quills scraping against the parchment.

_Thanks Merlin for small certainties, _Harry mused as they started chopping roots and stoking fires. Having been played at with the questions stank, but it was something he could live with – and as per the dark stares coming at him from the Slytherins, that was a feeling so familiar he settled into it like a pair of old slippers.

Having exacted his pound of flesh from Harry, the Potions masters left him alone for the rest of the lesson: in fact, as far as Snape went, he almost seemed to be in a good mood.  
He was waxing lyrical about the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs when Neville's cauldron melted with a loud hiss, causing immediate panic. Snape didn't yell at him half as badly as in Harry's memories – although even so, he managed to send the poor boy on the verge of hysterics – and didn't blame Harry for the incident, either because he was already satisfied with their previous confrontation or because it would have been too far-fetched, since Neville's bench was at the opposite corner of the dungeon. Snape _Evanesco_'d the spillage and ordered Seamus to walk his mate to the Hospital wing.

Harry's classmates, however, were not in a good mood and made sure their disapproval would not go undetected. Nott only rolled his eyes meaningfully as he passed by, but Crabbe gave Harry a solid shove as they filed out of the dungeons, sending him into the wall, and as soon as they were out of earshot of the Gryffindors, Malfoy came face to face with him.

"What did you do to rile Snape that way?" he hissed.

"What did it look like I was doing? I did _nothing_."

"Didn't seem like that to me," Draco objected, oblivious to the fact he'd end up losing more House points than any other first year.

"Try pulling your head out of your arse once in a while, Small Fry," Harry hissed, and Malfoy, predictably, went spare.

"Mind your tongue, Crackpot."

"Are you lot going to move anytime soon?" came Parkinson's annoyed voice from downstairs. "You're blocking the gangway."

After a quick and silent lunch, Harry went back to the dormitory (receiving a Stinging Hex in the back along the road), threw his books on the bed and left. They could chuck them into the lake for all he cared: by this time he knew them by heart.

He walked out of the castle and towards the edge of the Forest, where Hagrid lived. The giant's wooden, warm, smoky hut would be a pleasant change from the damp expanse of mossy stone that were the dungeons; all things considered, the rock cakes would be a small price to pay.

He knocked.

No answer.

"Hagrid? It's me, Harry. Harry Potter. Mind if I come in?"

He knocked again.

"Come on, Hagrid! It's _me_! I'm not gonna bite you!"

Then he realized that even if Hagrid had wanted to make himself scarce, there was no way he could stop Fang from barking his head off at the presence of an intruder: he looked up and saw no smoke coming out of the chimney.

Well, he really couldn't expect Hagrid to sit around all day, waiting for students to drop by; he was probably deep in the Forest now, cutting wood or collecting unicorn hairs or teaching Aragog how to fetch a stick.

Sighing, he took out a bit of parchment and a pencil and scribbled:

_Hi Hagrid,_

_I dropped by, but you were not home. I would like to come and visit some time, please let me know via Hedwig if it is okay._

_First week has been a riot. My House mates are nice, they remind me of my cousin._

_Greetings,_

_H._

He read it again, and thought it was okay. Not exactly cheerful, but not too heavy on the pathos either, and not compromising in case it fell into prying hands. There was no letterbox, so he found a window that was cracked open and slipped the note between the door and the frame, then made his way back to the castle, where he was greeted by a fuming Prescott.

"Where have you been?" the Prefect barked. "I've been looking for you all afternoon."

"Taking a walk."

"A walk to where?" Prescott asked suspiciously, reaching out and pulling a fir twig from Harry's tousled hair.

"To my business and back again."

"When a first year loses House points within a week from the start of term and disappears for hours, _his_ business are _my_ business. Remember what I told you on your very first night here?"

"I do, yeah," Harry chanted, eager to be done with this. "But Snape just used me to prove a point, otherwise he'd…"

"_Acuphenes,_" Prescott recited, and pointed his wand.

It was like having nails driven into one's his ears with a sledgehammer; Harry brought his hands to his ears and cried out, realising too late that it was the wrong thing to do. The yelp he had produced echoed like a foghorn; his eardrums trembled.

"IT SEEMS TO ME YOU HAVE A PROBLEM," Prescott boomed, each syllable like an atomic explosion directly inside Harry's head. "A HEARING PROBLEM, PERHAPS. I DISTINCTLY REMEMBER SAYING THAT IF YOU LOST HOUSE POINTS I WOULD MAKE YOUR LIFE AT HOGWARTS MISERABLE. DID YOU HEAR ME ON THAT, CRACKPOT?"

Harry just nodded, not wanting to speak and add to the torture.

"VERY WELL, WE'LL SEE. _FINITE_."

The ringing in his ears vanished, and Harry slumped to a crouched position, checking himself and surprised that his ears weren't bleeding. A part of him was actually complimenting the Prefect for the neat spell, otherwise he would have drawn out his wand and tried the worst he had learned from the Prince.

"I'm not your enemy, you know," Prescott said, making a show of putting his wand away and offering him a hand to pull up. Obviously that was a well-rehearsed routine. "Unless you ask for it."

"I'll let you know when there's a vacancy," Harry whispered, refusing Prescott's hand and pulling himself up.

"What?"

But Harry played deaf. Prescott frowned, but seemed to decide that the spell had left his victim a bit delirious, and did not inquire further.

The trouble, however, was not over. When Harry returned to the relative safety of the dormitory, a particularly angry Goyle confronted him right on the door.

"Where have you been? It was your turn. The room's a mess!"

Carefully, Harry stepped inside. A pair of robes were waltzing across the floor, which could not be seen for the amount of trash on it: it looked like an entire week's worth of notes had been turned into confetti. The coat hangers had been used to make a Calder-like sculpture, swaying and turning gently over the prone and unconscious figure of Crabbe. Goyle's toad had been turned purple and doubled in size, and was squeezed against the glass of its terrarium; Nott's cat, Artemisia, was nowhere in sight.

Three hours later, the room had been turned into a vague resemblance of a place fit for living and Harry was lying on the bed, fuming, twirling his wand absently between his fingers. All the rest of the space was taken by books such as _How to Irritate Wizards_, _A Theory of Practical Jokes _ and _The Complete Prewett's Prankster Book (If at All Possible, Include a Hippogriff)_, courtesy of the Common Room library.

_What the hell_, he though. If he was going to go down in flames, let them at least be blazes of glory. He had grown up to tales of his father and Sirius; he had witnessed the Weasley twins in action; he had survived Umbridge's regime and made her tenure as Hogwarts High Inquisitor a holiday in hell: there was no way in Merlin's green realm he was now going to let a bunch of robed reptiles get the better of him.

He took all the books in his arms and chucked them on the floor; he was not going to need them. The noise made the already shell-shocked first-years jump.

"I've had it, boys," Harry announced. "Is anyone up for a little payback?"

* * *

_Next: revenge is a dish best served with icing on top._


End file.
